


Struck a Cord

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Job, First Time, M/M, Smut, annoying sounds, corduroy trousers, intercrural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Which is more distracting? John with noisy trousers, or John with no trousers at all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Struck a Cord

**Author's Note:**

> This nonsense stemmed from a discussion in the Inner Circle chat room.  
> UrbanHymnal: I remember his character taking his pants off to pace because he couldn't stand the sound of them swishing and after that I became ridiculously aware of the sound when I walked.  
> persian: ...that is just begging for a naked!Sherlock fic right there.  
> Moony: Oh god, it really is.  
> Moony: Or... how about a naked!John fic  
> Moony: John gets a pair of corduroy trousers  
> Moony: And the noise drives Sherlock batty and he demands John take them off because "I'm trying to think!"  
> UrbanHymnal: Oh god, corduroy is the worst for it, too.  
> Moony: And rather than argue, John just capitulates.  
> dee: hahaha  
> Moony: I think I need to write this now XD

The sun is just starting to set, gilding everything in the sitting room with a diffuse warm light. Sherlock is draped across his armchair, head propped against one arm and bare feet hanging off the other side. He's lost in thought, trying to puzzle out the details of a few cases Lestrade's been flummoxed enough to share with him, when John comes marching up the stairs.

Something about the noise he's making is all wrong. There's the soft thud of his footfalls, the gentle susurration of a cotton button-down, all familiar. But above it all, maddeningly, is a jarringly abrasive noise every time John takes a step. Sherlock scrunches his eyes further shut, a futile attempt to focus on something other than the sound.

Giving it up as a lost cause, he swings his legs around and sits up, staring at John, who is standing in front of the sofa now.

"What is making that god-awful noise?"

John turns to look at Sherlock, and there it is again. Like two pieces of Velcro being pulled apart, repeatedly.

"What noise?"

"John Watson, are you wearing corduroy trousers?"

"Oh, do you like them? I bought them today, thought I'd wear them home."

"They're bloody awful." Sherlock realises he sounds like a petulant child, but finds he cares not even a tiny bit.

"What's wrong with them? I thought they looked pretty good." John turns at the hip, some ridiculous imitation of a runway model. Sherlock would find the gesture charming and even endearing if it didn't result in more hideous noise from the offending trousers.

“Put something else on.”

“Sherlock, I just want to sit down and watch Top Gear.”

“Fine, just stop making noise.”

“At this point you’re making more noise than I am.”

With a huff, John drops himself onto the sofa, the texture of the corduroy rubbing against the union flag cushion at his hip. The sound puts Sherlock’s teeth further on edge, but he bites his tongue, waiting for John to stop fidgeting.

At first, John is still enough that the rubbing, chafing, grinding is nearly negligible. But as he relaxes, he slides lower into the seat, causing the ridges of the fabric to scrape against the cushion, against the leather of the sofa, against each other. It's as if they'd been specifically engineered to perfection for the sole purpose of driving Sherlock completely round the bend.

Attempting to put the noise out of his mind, Sherlock settles back into his chair. He closes his eyes and clasps his hands under his chin. Unfortunately, without the visual distractions, the noise is even more prevalent, and now John seems to be bouncing one leg up and down. It’s as if he’s going out of his way to be even more annoying than usual.

“John! I can’t think!”

“Honestly, Sherlock, you’re being a baby. If it bothers you that much, go somewhere else.”

“Why don’t you just take the stupid things off? They’re annoying, and they’re not doing your rear end any favours.”

“Admiring my arse, were you?” Even with his eyes closed, Sherlock can tell John’s smirking. And so what if he had been? Objectively, John's got a fine specimen of a rear.

“Fine then, maybe I will just take them off. Give you a bit of a show, if that's what you want.”

Abruptly, Sherlock sits up and stares wide-eyed at John. Sherlock's not told anyone about the strange foreign thoughts, the painfully vivid dreams he's had of John in various states of undress. Are they written so clearly across his face?

“You wouldn’t.” His voice is hard and sharp, aiming for disinterest verging on disgust.

“Try me. Sherlock, I’m a doctor and I spent years in the army. Wandering around in my pants is nothing new.”

As if daring Sherlock to argue, John stares boldly and openly at him, standing up straight and maintaining full eye contact as he undoes the flies of the bloody noisy trousers. Sherlock swallows and does his best not to look away. As John steps out of the cords, Sherlock realises he’s too mesmerised by the solid musculature of John’s thighs, the surprisingly smooth skin of his calves, to even pay attention to the awful grinding noises. Interesting.

Despite his claims that he’s no stranger to casual nudity, John’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes slightly downcast, as he lowers himself back onto the sofa with a huff.

“Happy now? Go back to your all-important thinking and let me watch this in peace.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to throw a witty retort back, but finds his throat dry and his tongue sticky and unwilling to cooperate. He coughs, attempting to clear it, and throws himself onto the sofa. He aims his gaze at the ceiling, but his eyes keep drifting over to the bare expanse of skin between John’s socks and his boring, sensible, slightly threadbare grey boxer-briefs.

Shaking his head to clear it, Sherlock tries to get back on track, but can’t remember what it was he was supposed to be thinking about. His mind drifts back to the frayed cotton at the top of John’s thigh, the slightly thinning patch of fabric at his hip, and most tantalising, the tiny gap at the front where the button is being strained against. Strained against? Blinking, Sherlock stares more intently, and yes, John is clearly showing the initial stirrings of arousal. Nothing alarming, nothing that would be noticeable if he were wearing trousers, but it's definitely there. A quick glance upwards shows a faint flush across his throat, his pupils beginning to dilate.

Sherlock finds himself pondering what John could possibly be thinking about. Top Gear? Certainly not. Sherlock’s heard of men being aroused by cars before, and objectively one of the hosts could be considered conventionally attractive, but John’s never showed an interest of that nature in the show or the hosts before. The only new variable is the lack of trousers.

Is John secretly an exhibitionist? Sherlock frowns, tapping his fingers against his lips. His manner of dress would indicate the opposite - plain, shapeless garments, tightly buttoned from collar to wrist, helping him blend into the background. So it’s not so much that John enjoys being looked at. What then? That he enjoys being looked at _by Sherlock_?

Sherlock shakes his head, craning his neck to try to get a better view. He finds himself thoroughly fascinated by the tantalising sliver of skin visible between the fly buttons, and by the way the frayed edges of one leg seem to caress the skin of John’s inner thigh, the way they seem to be inviting a finger to follow the soft curve. He’s jolted out of his reverie when John coughs and shifts position, crossing his legs and angling himself away from the sofa.

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John’s voice is pained, and slightly raspy.

Before he has time to muffle it, an indignant noise escapes the back of Sherlock’s throat.

“I haven't said anything!”

“You were about to. Have you had enough of a look, then, you nosy bastard? Got it all figured out?”

“No. I’m...” Confused. Clueless. Lost. Flummoxed. Sherlock’s voice is quiet. “You’re embarrassed. Why?”

"Really, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowns, sitting up and staring into John's eyes. There's a new noise distracting him now, a rapid, heady thudding filling the flat. It takes Sherlock a moment to realise it's his own heart, echoing in his ears.

"You took your trousers off of your own volition, you seemed to have no immediate embarrassment about that. Your legs are quite fit, no reason to be ashamed of showing them off..."

John sighs theatrically, rolling his eyes, and turns the television off. He shifts his weight and drops his hands into his lap, obscuring himself from Sherlock's view.

"For a genius, you can be exceptionally dense sometimes. I'm sitting here trouserless in my own flat, trying to hide the fact that I'm at half-mast because I'm being stared at by the world's most observant man. Why wouldn't I be embarrassed? Just stop staring at me so I can stomp out of here with a shred of dignity, would you?"

Sherlock's mind is whirring, analysing everything John's just said. Not "in spite of", but "because." John is, as Sherlock had initially speculated, aroused by the fact that he's being observed. By Sherlock. The realisation is like a jolt of adrenaline, spiking Sherlock's pulse even higher. The epiphany is accompanied by a throbbing sensation in Sherlock's groin, something he's not felt in quite some time. Not an erection - not yet - but his body's definitely responding in kind to John's.

Sherlock springs up from his chair, skittering towards John in an uncharacteristically ungainly tumble. He leans forward slightly, one hand on the arm of the sofa, the other on the cushion next to John's knee. He's surrounding John, but not trapping him.

"No."

"No what?" John blinks, confused and overwhelmed. He runs his tongue along his lower lip, and Sherlock takes a moment to analyse his body language. His shoulders are still tense, but his hands are relaxed now, loosely resting on his inner thighs. No longer shielding himself, and significantly more aroused than he was earlier. Sherlock smirks.

"No, I am not going to let you stomp out of here."

Dropping to his knees, Sherlock tentatively moves one hand off the arm of the sofa to John's knee. The muscle under his fingers tenses for a fraction of a second and then shudders as John relaxes. Sherlock closes his eyes and rests his cheek on the soft, fragile skin of John's inner thigh, inhaling deeply. He's overcome with the sudden want - no, the need - to free John's erection from his cotton pants, to smell and touch and taste and learn. He raises his other hand off the sofa.

Sherlock pauses, trembling fingers hovering just above the thin cotton, feeling the warmth pooling there. He tilts his head, looking up at John in silent supplication. John swallows heavily and nods, dropping one hand to rest on the chair and the other running through Sherlock's hair, fingers tangling in the soft, sensitive curls at his nape. Feeling John's nails run over the skin there, Sherlock lets out a muffled moan, his breath warm and moist against John's cotton-clad cock. As John raises his hips in assent, Sherlock feels his own penis twitch and thicken, a heady rush of blood to the groin.

John tightens his grip on Sherlock's hair and gasps out an inarticulate noise as Sherlock presses his lips to the head of John's erection, still through the barrier of his pants. Sherlock traces the outline of it with his tongue, feeling the steady throb of John's pulse through the protuberant veins just under the head. It's not enough, this maddening contact. Deftly, he undoes the buttons along the front and slips his tongue into the split fabric, and is rewarded for his efforts with John's sharp intake of breath.

He works his fingers into the slit of the boxers, and in concert with his tongue, frees John's cock from its tight confines. Unencumbered, it bobs freely against the waistband, the foreskin already retracting around the flushed, bulbous head. Curiously, tentatively, Sherlock brings his tongue to a hard point and traces one long thick vein that runs from the base to the crown. John shudders, a violent, full-body affair, and tightens his grip on Sherlock's hair. Sherlock gasps slightly, pain conflated with pleasure, and John releases his fingers slightly, murmuring what could be an apology or could be a plea for more.

Sherlock finds himself strangely eager, desperate to bring words of superfluous praise to John's lips in a way that so far only his deductions have done. He flattens his tongue, curling it around the thickness of John's shaft, and slides up and down the length a few times before focusing on the head.

As he takes the swollen glans between his lips, forming a tight circle, John groans softly and rocks his hips again, driving himself against the curve of Sherlock's soft palate. Startled, Sherlock huffs a breath out around John's cock.

"Christ, Sherlock, sorry. God, your mouth. I've wanted this for so long... I can't..."

It's not brilliant, or spectacular, or amazing, but right now it feels like it's the best thing Sherlock's ever heard. With renewed vigor, he opens his mouth wider and takes as much of John's length into his mouth as he can, getting about halfway down the shaft before his throat closes reflexively. Frustrated, he pulls back, tongue tracing the smooth flat skin of John's fraenulum. He flicks his tongue over the head, across the slit, reveling in the bead of salty-bitter-sweet pre-come he finds there. The motion causes John to buck again, and Sherlock, eager to repeat the result, continues tonguing the hole.

He brings his other hand to the base of the shaft of John's penis, slippery with his own saliva. Tentatively, he gives it a few solid strokes, bringing his fist up to meet the tight circle of his lips, and John groans, thrusting his hips upwards.

He presses the heel of his other hand against his own erection, now full and heavy and aching, and focuses on the slick slide of his hand and mouth around the solid heat of John's prick. John gives another full-body shudder and pulls in a shaking breath.

"Sh... Sherlock. Stop."

Stop. Stop? Why now. Sherlock pulls off of John's cock with an obscenely wet noise, a sparkling trail of saliva and pre-come still connecting his lip to the head.

"Have I... Did I misunderstand, John?" Sherlock looks down at the floor, unable to look John in the face.

"What? No, no, god no. Oh, Sherlock. I just..." John rubs his face with one hand, his other hand tugging lightly on his balls. Sherlock peers at them for a moment, hard and tight and drawn up close to his body. The sudden realisation that John was about to orgasm is a welcome relief, flooding over his body.

"You didn't want to overwhelm me. Or you're worried about fluids." He finally looks up at John, who is smiling warmly.

"Something like that, yeah. God, you're fucking gorgeous right now. That mouth... you were built for sucking cock." The compliment, such as it was, should have annoyed Sherlock. It's crass and vulgar and has nothing to do with important things like intellect. Instead, he feels a strange swell of pride.

"But..." John presses the heel of his hands against his balls again, rubbing his other hand over his face. "It's silly. Don't laugh. Just get up here. I want you to... Us to..." John scowls, apparently frustrated at his lack of words. Thankfully, for once, Sherlock understands. He nuzzles the inside of John's thigh, the soft, curling hairs tickling his cheek. He stands up, smiling at John.

"Together?"

John nods. "I told you it was silly."

"No, John. I'm not entirely inexperienced, but the few partners I had in uni..." Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, which must be a hilarious rat's nest by now. "None of them really cared about that sort of thing. About me. So..." He scrunches up his nose, suddenly awkward. "Thank you."

John has unbuttoned his shirt while Sherlock's been rambling, and he's reclined on the sofa now, nearly nude and cock still glistening with Sherlock's saliva and protruding obscenely from his boxers.

Sherlock strips down with brisk efficiency; John's not the type to need to be seduced with some formulaic teasing routine. Besides, it seems a little like an afterthought at this point. He nudges his shirt and trousers to one side with his foot, pulling his socks off but keeping his pants on. His prick is hard, so impossibly hard, jutting out from his body with such intent that it's pulling the waistband of his pants away from his body. He cocks his head, trying to figure out what John's got in mind.

Sensing his confusion, John smiles fondly at him, eyes dark and warm under heavily hooded lids. He reaches down and shimmies out of his pants, leaving them around his knees. The whole picture should be absurd, but it's making Sherlock breathy and desperate and wobbly in the thighs.

"C'mon then, take your pants off and lie down. On top of me."

Sherlock swallows, heart thrumming in his chest. John holds one hand out gently, as if trying to calm a startled animal, and pats his sternum with the other. Sherlock barks out an awkward laugh, and John grins again.

"Are you coming, or not?"

"Well, I should hope at least one of us is."

"Ahh, there's the Sherlock I know. I was starting to worry."

The banter jolts something in Sherlock's brain, something comforting and familiar, and suddenly everything is fine again. He pulls his pants down, groaning softly as his cock bobs free. Ignoring the urge to take things in hand and stroke himself to completion right then and there, Sherlock dips cautiously onto the sofa, one knee between John's legs and the other trapped snugly against the back of the sofa.

Their faces are close, impossibly so, and Sherlock can feel the warm huffs of John's breath against his own lips. He parts them tentatively, unsure of how to proceed. John, once again proving his own form of subtle genius, tilts his head just so and traps Sherlock's lower lip between his own. It's not even a kiss, not really, but it's the most gentle and passionate thing anyone's ever done to Sherlock. He moans against John's mouth, and John parts his lips properly, agile tongue reaching out to trace the line of Sherlock's lips for once, rather than his own.

They lay there, entangled, pressed together from foreheads to swollen cocks, and Sherlock gives one gentle but unsubtle rock of his hips. John strokes his cheek gently and lets his hand trail down, fingers lighting a burning trail from Sherlock's jaw, to his throat, over his shoulder, along the sensitive skin of his ribs. The hand pauses for a moment at Sherlock's hip bone, igniting a smouldering fire deep in his belly, before continuing downwards. Sherlock's expecting to feel John's hand on his cock, but is taken by surprise when he feels John shift his weight, sliding his leg under Sherlock's, so Sherlock's thighs are trapped close together, with John's legs spread widely around him.

"John... what are..."

Sherlock's lips are trapped between John's again, whether to kiss him or to shut him up, Sherlock’s not sure.

"Just keep those legs together, okay?"

John's intention becomes evident as Sherlock feels the slick, swollen head of John's prick sliding between his thighs, nudging the sensitive skin of his bollocks before settling into the tight crease where his legs meet. With a groan muffled against Sherlock's neck, John thrusts tentatively a few times. The combination of cooling saliva and Sherlock's warm, salty sweat is enough to provide slight lubrication, along with the slip-slide of his foreskin, but the friction must be intense. Sherlock groans at the sensation of John fucking his thighs, his own neglected cock trapped in the hot tight space between their bodies.

As if sensing Sherlock's thoughts, John slips his hand into the space between them, wrapping it tightly around Sherlock's length. Their position isn't ideal and John's grip is slightly awkward, but Sherlock is so overwhelmed by the sheer flood of _touchtastesightsmellsoundstimulation_ that he's impossibly close already.

To let John know, he jerks his hips roughly, thighs clenching, gripping John tightly. They fall into a fluid rhythm, John pushing deep into Sherlock, Sherlock rocking back and sliding his prick through the circle of John's hand. It feels like mere seconds before John is gasping, groaning, pleading for release, and Sherlock feels the pounding of both their hearts in his chest.

He grips the pillow behind John's head and bellows, vision narrowing as the rolling waves of his climax hit him. He's only barely aware of John burying his face in Sherlock's chest, whimpering softly as his orgasm spills out between Sherlock's thighs, hot and wet. John gently lets go of Sherlock's softening prick, his hand dragging a trail of come that's going to be unpleasantly sticky in a few minutes. Right now, Sherlock couldn't care less. He rests his head on John's shoulder, sucking in deep, raspy breaths.

For a moment, everything is perfect and silent, distilled down to the safe space on the sofa, the two of them. Nothing else, nobody else matters.

Not until Sherlock's phone rings, and he springs off the sofa like he's been shocked. Awkwardly, he perches on the edge of the coffee table, unsure of what to say or do. He can feel the come cooling on his inner thighs, sticking to the varnish. John's staring wide-eyed at him, the hair on the back of his head sticking up absurdly. All Sherlock wants to do is lean over and flatten it with his hand, to feel John warm and solid under his fingers again, but he has no idea if John wants that. Sherlock's prior experience here is entirely unhelpful, as he's always been left to his own devices and promptly ignored after anything resembling intercourse. Will John want to cuddle? Does he want to talk about his feelings?

The shrill, insistent ringing of the phone cuts through Sherlock's thoughts again, and he turns to stare at it.

"You going to answer that, then?" John's voice is gentle, faintly amused. "Might be Lestrade."

It's a moot question, the phone stops ringing as soon as John asks. Sherlock reaches over, picking it up, and turns it over in his hand a few times.

"Should... should I have? Wouldn't that have been a bit... not good?"

John grins again, artless but beguiling. "Sherlock, I know the work comes first. Yes, we're going to need to sort out what just happened here, but if it keeps happening..."

Sherlock opens his mouth to interrupt. Surely it's going to keep happening?

"Let me finish. I want it to. God, I've wanted it for ages now. I just..."

"I do too, John. When do I ever do anything in half-measures?"

There's a faint flush creeping across John's cheeks again, but it's nothing to do with arousal or embarrassment this time, despite the fact that they're both still completely naked. He turns and sits up, patting the sofa next to him. Obligingly, Sherlock pulls himself off the coffee table with a wince and moves back over next to John.

"Well, good, we're both on the same page. But I'm being realistic, Sherlock. I know what your work means to you, and I already put up with some spectacular rudeness on your part. If that involves answering your bloody phone at inconvenient times, so be it." John's face is warm and open, and Sherlock can tell there's no artifice behind his statement. Sherlock brings his knees up to his chest, gasping slightly at the rush of cold air on his exposed genitals. Chuckling, John tosses him the pillow, which Sherlock carefully tucks between his legs in some vain attempt to keep himself decent.

"John... that... I appreciate that. I know I'm not the easiest person to live with, and if this - " John frowns at the interrogative. " _When_ this continues, I'm invariably going to do something wrong."

John reaches out and gently strokes the top of Sherlock's foot, now seemingly entirely uninhibited by his own nudity.

The phone rings again, and this time Sherlock mutes it with the touch of a key and tosses it back onto his chair. Whoever it is can bloody well wait. The pleased look on John's face is worth it.

"You're not the only one who is going to screw up at some point, Sherlock. That's part of being a relationship. You've just got to decide whether those screw ups are worth working around."

Solemnly, Sherlock nods.

"Thank you, John. Now, if you don't mind, would you please put on some trousers? You're awfully distracting like that and I have work to do."

With a snort, John swats playfully at Sherlock's leg before reaching over to grab his pants and trousers.

"Are you sure? I've been told these ones can get a bit annoying."

With a lascivious grin that feels altogether unfamiliar but completely appropriate, Sherlock leers at John's naked, vulnerable body. Chuckling, John sits up and wriggles into his pants.

"You've got to get dressed too, though. S'only fair."

With a hugely put-upon sigh, Sherlock grabs his trousers and slips into them, not bothering with his pants. He's loosely debating putting on his shirt when the front door of the flat bursts open and DI Lestrade barges in.

"You boys alright? I've called several times and..."

He looks around, taking in the state of disarray of the sofa, and the various states of undress of the flat's occupants. Sherlock glances over at John, and in concert, the two of them burst out giggling, slumping back onto the sofa.

"Well, shit. Um. Sorry. Call me when you've got a moment." With that, he rushes back down the stairs, not sparing a second glance for either John or Sherlock.

Sherlock was expecting to feel dirty, guilty, ashamed, when people found out he was catering to his baser instincts. Instead, all he can feel is a sense of pride, swelling hugely in his chest. John Watson is his. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Struck a Cord" by Moonblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/771836) by [Persian Slipper (Luthe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthe/pseuds/Persian%20Slipper)




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